Editor’s Note: The following story was provided to me by a friend who felt it was time to tell her #YouKnowMe story. At her request, I’m publishing it here.
I’m one in four. You know me. I don’t owe you my story, but I’m ready to tell it – and to do whatever it takes to protect long-standing rights of women AND young girls, including my three daughters and countless females without the resources I had.
It was 1985. I was working at my first summer job, as a file clerk in an insurance agency for minimum wage. The work was monotonous but that didn’t explain why I was so tired. A co-worker saw me laying out the couch in the women’s room one lunch break and commented, “what are you, pregnant or something?”